Rogue
by Herdcat
Summary: AU - Ignores season 5 - the shadow war is over - but the conflicts with earth and the corps are escalating. All Lyta wants is to continue her life quietly on B5, but the corps will not stop hunting her. Bester detects a threat to his kind that is connected to the station - something is killing telepaths and he may be prepared to bend the rules if Lyta agrees to work with him
1. Chapter 1

The chubby shopkeeper was thinking about the latest news from mars, and the pie he planned to eat for dinner. He was mildly irritated because the shipment of flour which he had ordered was running late, and he had been hoping to turn a profit on it. Lyta waited patiently as he rung up her purchases, a task which he performed with a dull efficiency that seemed to take up all of his attention.

'That will be fifty credits,' he informed her at last, placing the last of her items in a bag. Lyta narrowed her eyes;

'That's ridiculous!' she protested hotly. 'This is barely enough food for three days, and that's if I eat like a squirrel!'

The large man shrugged.

'Feel free to shop around. I doubt you'll find a better offer on human food, and while you could try the alien sectors, I wouldn't personally recommend it.'

Lyta made some hasty calculations. Fifty credits; she could just about afford it, but unless she found some way of earning money soon she would find herself in trouble. Otherwise it was only a matter of time until she was left as penniless as the residents of down below. Then again she needed to eat.

'Be reasonable! I will give you forty, and you should be ashamed of yourself,'

'Now look here young lady!' the shopkeeper began, and then recoiled as he finally recognised her. The hum of his thoughts flared from background noise to a tirade;

_Fear/Hostility/ Scorn;_

-and Lyta felt the familiar stirrings of a headache as she forced her defences into place. She was no longer a P5, and what had once been a manageable if unpleasant response now threatened to drown her.

The man was considering refusing to serve her on principal, she could tell, and the thought of going through this again at another shop decided her.

'Fine! You win! Fifty credits - take it!'

The man took her card grudgingly, and his glare followed her out of the shop and onto the station. Now that the insolating presence of the shop was behind her, she was once again buffeted by the general chaos that was Babylon 5 on any normal day. _People late, people happy, worries, concerns, stress, pain, love_, they all rushed over her at once, threatening to drown her with their multitude.

-But that was ok; Lyta had been caught in these currents for long enough that navigating them had become familiar. So she closed her eyes (too much information and she risked overloading, and besides she could see this area sixty times, from sixty different viewpoints) and forced her focus inwards, blocking out everything but the rhythm of her breathing.

Breathe in; _I am Lyta_.

Breathe out; _they are other_.

In; _Lyta_.

Out; _other._

In, and then out.

That was the first exercise that new telepaths learnt, when the voices threatened to overwhelm them. As shields went it was embarrassingly basic, and the Lyta of years ago would have scorned it, but that Lyta was a trained P5 in a manageable environment. Now her abilities surpassed classification, but her training was still that of an average talent, and the voices were so _loud_.

So she closed her eyes, and _breathed_, and somehow clung on to sanity. After a little while the crisis began to pass; she was still aware of the crowds but they no longer sought to overwhelm her. She was about to resume her walk, suitably grounded when someone collided with her painfully, the impact shattering her concentration so that she _saw._

_The man was called Clive. His wife thought he was working late but that was a lie. He was headed for down below where the women were more accommodating. _

Then she slammed her walls down, ending the connection with a shudder of distaste. Of all the minds to be thrown into it had to be the seediest, oiliest, most vile! For perhaps the thousandth time since making her home in space Lyta longed for the luxury of a bath. But that was impossible; she would just have to settle for the stability of her rooms, and a barrier from the throng of mundane minds.

With a hastily voiced 'excuse me,' she entangled herself and her overpriced shopping and was about to hurry away, when his arm shot out catching hers like a vice.

'Not so fast, telepath.'

This was _not_ good. His grip had restored the channel between them, and the depth of his hatred floored her. Many people felt uncomfortable around telepaths, but this went deeper. This was a loathing that bordered on madness; his thoughts were a tangle of violent images, chaotic impulses, all centred on her.

'Let go of me,' Lyta growled. '_Now_!'

She could feel the Vorlon strangeness rising within her in response to the perceived threat; the darkness that would shine forwards from her eyes, as she put this mundane in his place… and with considerable effort she forced it back down.

She might have been designed to be a weapon, but the days when Kosh and his kind had protected her were as far gone as the Vorlon's themselves. They had lifted her out of her world, turned her into a freak to fight their battles and then discarded her without a second thought, once their ancient enemies were defeated.

If Sheridan had not offered her sanctuary…well Lyta did not think that earth would have welcomed a rogue telepath with the capacity of a nuclear warhead, and once the corps got hold of her… She suppressed a shudder. As grateful as he was for the part she had played in saving their collective asses from annihilation, Sheridan had made it abundantly clear that her stay was conditional.

'I will not have a telepath abusing their powers on my station.' He had told her, his boyish face uncharacteristically serious as he laid down the law. 'You are free to practise within reasonable conditions of course but…'

'Psicorp conditions?' she had interrupted sharply, not able to believe what she was hearing. At least he had the decency to have looked slightly abashed.

'No one is asking you to re-join the Psicorp, Lyta. But I can't have you performing illegal scans. Do so and I would be forced to withdraw my protection, and I would hate to have to do that.'

His sincerity had made the situation that much more annoying. His desire to help her was genuine, but he would turn her over to the Corps without hesitation if stepped out of line.

-Which had brought her here; the most powerful human telepath in the galaxy; cornered by a mundane. Well, damn.

Clive leaned closer, and his breath proved almost as offensive as his thoughts.

'Let you go? I don't think so,' She could feel the spike in his adrenalin. This was a man who got off on conflict, and he hated to back down. 'You're that freak aren't you? the one that even the teeps don't want.'

_If only you knew…._ The Psicorp had in fact been angling for her return since the war had ended, offering a variety of threats and incitements. To do him credit Sheridan had stood his ground…so far, but she knew that the pressure must be mounting. But that was a problem for another time. The current one was proving difficult enough.

If she could only use her powers, but that was simply too risky… it was even possible that the Corp had arranged this situation, as an excuse to have her released into their custody. That was just the sort of convoluted thinking that would amuse Bester.

Of course _Bester_ would not need to scan this man, she thought with some bitterness. He would have fallen back on intimidation and it would have worked, because he was good at it.

_Of course_ _you could be good at it_ pointed out a rebellious part of her. Bester is what, a P12? You are beyond classification!

With that thought something in her snapped. Five years she had spent down playing her own potential, _five years_ of playing by their rules, all so that mundanes would feel comfortable. For what exactly? So that they could install her in a cheap room and forget she existed until they wanted something?

Surely she deserved better than _this_!

So she leaned forwards, swallowing her distaste to invade _his_ personal space. 'That's right _Clive_,' she told him softly, with a feral smile of her own. 'I'm the one the freaks are scared of, and now you're standing in my way.'

It was with some satisfaction that she sensed his anger make way for uncertainty. He had been so sure that she was bound by station regulations. If he had been wrong about that he might be in more danger than he had realised…He hated that she had shaken him and so resorted to bluster.

'You read my mind! That's illegal!'

It was, Lyta thought with a flicker of amusement, the very last thing he ought to be worried about. Not when the Vorlon strangeness lingered in the background of her thoughts, whispering of destruction. But this was a mundane, and to him telepathy was telepathy. It was not difficult to summon condescending amusement this time. She was almost enjoying herself.

'Really?' she asked, conversationally. 'Because those rules apply to the Psicorp, and you know what, I don't see a badge on me…'

That did get through to him. Doubt flared through him_, he had thought her as defenceless as the other bitch but could he be wrong?_

'You will regret this,' he told her at last, dropping her arm as though it were poisonous.

'I already do,' she had assured him.

That night her dreams were troubled.

She was walking through the corridors of the psicorp institution in Canada where she had grown up. They were full of corpses, and the president of the earth alliance was beaming benevolently at her, over a blood stained table.

Then she was paralysed, suspended in the tank the Vorlons had used for their experimentation. The oxygen was rapidly running out, which must be why her tormentor appeared to her as a tired looking cartoon duck. 'I am sorry Lyta,' it was telling her, shaking its oversized head wearily. 'I wish there was a way to make an exception for you.'

Then she was on mars. The Psicops had just dealt with the mundane who had been killing telepaths, and she was struggling under the weight of her horror when she became aware of _his_ eyes on her, dangerous and assessing. 'I have found fear to be a powerful tool,' Bester was telling her conversationally.

'The mundanes are afraid because they know in their hearts that we can reduce them to this. It keeps them from harming us…most of the time,'

She woke to the sound of someone hammering against her door. 'Alright!' she snapped irritably. 'Lay off! I'm coming already!'

Grabbing the closest night robe, she took a second to straighten her hair, before throwing open the door.

'I hope that you have a good reason for this…' She trailed off, wondering if she wasn't still caught up in the dream. Standing in her doorway was a small security squadron, grim faced and very obviously armed. At its head was Zack, and for once he wasn't smiling.

'Lyta Alexander I am placing you under arrest for abuse of telepathy against a citizen. You have the right to an attorney, but be warned that anything you say may be used against you in a tribunal…'


	2. Chapter 2

She was under arrest? The last traces of sleep were hastily retreating, and in their place came something close to fear. This was it – the crisis she had been waiting for – Sheridan could now hand her over without anyone doubting his integrity.

Lyta cursed her complacency. She should have seen this coming. The incident the night before had screamed set up. She had assumed because she had not deep scanned the man that she had dodged the trap, but maybe they hadn't actually needed her to scan him. After all, if the mundane continued to insist that she had violated his rights it would require another telepath to confirm her innocence. Somehow Lyta doubted that the Psicorp would send someone interested in clearing her name.

In the meantime she was cornered. If she ran then she lost the station, and the Psicops would be free to hunt her in truth. But if she allowed herself to be taken into custody, and her situation was as hopeless as it looked…it could be the equivalent to surrendering to the corps, without even getting the chance to fight.

'This is ludicrous,' Lyta protested hotly, drawing on the anger which was the only thing standing between her and utter panic. 'I insist on legal representation – I have rights, damnit!'

'Didn't seem so bothered by the rights of the folk you scanned' one of the officers muttered under his breath.

'You will get your representation,' promised Zack, glaring the man down. 'But first you need to come with us to lockup. Please don't make this difficult.'

Lyta fixed him with a flat stare. Her every instinct screamed at her to disable this team and make a run for it. She might have done so there and then, if it wasn't Zack who was giving her is word. He is a _mundane_ the voice of her panic insisted, even _if_ he wanted to help, his hands are tied.

But he might be the only thing standing between her and the likes of Bester; could she afford to throw away that chance?

'You mean the sort of difficult that requires a whole armed squadron just to arrest little old me?' she asked him bluntly.

'What I mean is that you are better off with us handling the case and not the Psicops.'

There it was; her fear set out before her. 'Now look here Zack…'

But Zack cut her off. 'No. Enough is enough. Place yourself under arrest voluntarily, or run, but if you do you'd better hope I never catch you.'

She searched his face for a suggestion that he was bluffing, and came up with nothing.

Zack might be willing to carry out a mild flirtation where it did not touch upon his duties, but right now he would treat her as any other potentially dangerous telepath. It came as a surprise to Lyta how much this bothered her.

'I am innocent,' she told him, abruptly.

-And caught a sudden wave of tiredness, which was quickly replaced by the mental recitation of a particularly raunchy pop song.

'Then you understand why we need to take you in, just while we can work out what is going on.'

She sighed. Going with him would allow her to hold on to more options, she reasoned finally. She had seen the brig; it would not hold her. If being reasonable failed she could always escape and at least she would have tried to salvage her life here.

'Can I at least change into something less slept in?'

Her request was rewarded by the fraction of a smile, a glimmer of normality. It gave her hope; if she was released at the end of this misunderstanding, whatever fragile chemistry existed between them might not have been destroyed.

'I will need to wait in the room with you,' he explained, with a hint of awkwardness. She shrugged lightly. After all what was a small indignity compared to what awaited her at the hands of the Psicorp?

'Of course. After all my Vorlon gifted powers of teleportation are well known.'

She offered him a grim smile before entering her room. She was trying to work out what clothing best suggested 'innocent but falsely accused' when she caught a flash of his intent – a syringe which he had concealed in his pocket- but by then it was too late. Her telepathy was no match for his reflexes, and she felt a needle slice into her arm.

'I am sorry Lyta,' he whispered - and he _was_ sorry – she read it clearly before the serum began to work in her bloodstream. Then the thoughts were gone from her, alone with the familiar pressure of minds that usually inhabited the station.

It was as if her head had been thrust underwater; the voices were drowned out, and so was most of the world. The disorientation was absolute, she couldn't see, she couldn't hear, and everything seemed far away. Zack was speaking to her, but the syllables were slurred and irrelevant. It took all her concentration not to fall, and the world around her was reduced to a psychic equivalent of black and white. She managed to get to the sink moments before her stomach revolted. The room spun, and the loss of her sense was a gaping wound inside her head.

She came back to herself in stages. First the nausea dulled, although the unpleasant taste lingered, in her mind as much as her mouth. Then the dizziness abated. She felt as shaky as if she had just recovered from the flue but she could think again; if she could get over the intrusive silence pressing in on her from all angles.

A day ago she might have welcomed such a silence; but that was before the walls began to close in around her. Without her powers she was just another blip – easy prey for men like Bester. -But more than that -the emptiness of it frightened her. It was as if her mind was suddenly far smaller; her thoughts were rattling around with too much space.

Zack was watching her with obvious concern. Well what did he expect? How would he feel if one of us chemically blinded him? She turned away from him – unwilling to face the jolt of pain that his betrayal had caused her. It was easier to focus on the immediate concerns than consider the fact that she had just lost her only ally.

She held it together for long enough to pick out an outfit- a uniform which flattered her shape, but in a business-like manner. It was the look which she had cultivated, back when she was part of the corp, and impressing clients was her biggest concern. Now it would serve as her armour; a persona she would need to assume if she was to get through the coming ordeal. There was nothing Lyta could do if Sheridan decided to hand her over, and she accepted that, as terrifying as that realisation was. But she would face whatever came as Lyta Alexander and not some ragged stereotype of a rogue telepath.

Sweeping past Zack – she had not spoken a word to him since the shock of his betrayal had started to sink in – she turned to face the security team. 'Lead on,' she suggested with a bleak smile. There was some advantage to being arrested at night, she supposed, if it meant that her arrest was not witnessed by the whole station. There were still onlookers… a place like Babylon 5 was never entirely empty, but if they had an opinion on her situation they kept it to themselves.

The cell they brought her to was not uncomfortable, although there was an unfinished quality to it that reminded her of her quarters under the second 'Kosh'. She took the only seat, and fixed her gaze pointedly on the wall.

Zack cleared his throat. The guards had retreated to their other duties, obviously having decided that the serum would hold her, and the two of them were left alone. She was rather satisfied to feel him flinch under the ice of her expression.

'I can arrange for someone to represent you' he offered, uncomfortably. 'In cases like this it would be normal for it to be a member of the Corps, but given the circumstances…' he hesitated again '-if you don't have a preference I can make sure that whoever they appoint…'

'I do have a preference,' she told him coolly. It was the strategy which she had been working on during the walk from her quarters. The only course of action she could think of that might help her at this stage.

'I want to speak with Mr Garibaldi.'

* * *

For someone who had a troubled past with alcohol – Zack mused – the former security chief had certainly picked an interesting choice of office. Dodging a drunken alien (and stepping in something unmentionable in the process) Zack swung himself into the seat opposite his former employer.

'Nice place you've got here,' he commented, gesturing expansively at what was quite possibly the seediest bar in down below. 'I particularly like the décor.'

Garibaldi cracked his Cheshire smile. 'What can I say – it appeals to my client base.'

'Well I think I have part of your client base attached to my shoe,' Zack gestured to the unmentionable stain now oozing faintly through the sole of his left boot.

Garibaldi's grin widened. 'It matches your personality,' he offered. 'Nut?'

'No thanks!' Zack shuddered mildly; the food in down below gave him the creeps. Not to mention the fact that he was getting some downright unfriendly looks from around the room; this was not the sort of place where security personnel were welcome. Of course none of this stopped Garibaldi looking perfectly at home.

Zack had been taken aback by the other man's resignation when it had come, completely out of the blue, three weeks ago. To tell the truth he wasn't sure what to make of it even now. He hadn't figured Garibaldi for the quitting type, but then war changed people. If a couple of years ago someone had told Zack that he would one day be the head of security for anything bigger than a cupboard on mars he would have called them crazy, but here he was. -Mostly because of the actions of the man who sat opposite him choosing a nut with a meticulous precision which bordered on ridicule.

Garibaldi had been willing to give him a chance when no sane employer would have, and that was a debt he would always carry. More than that, the other man was a friend – a damn good one. If anyone was shrewd enough to see a way out of this telepath dilemma it would be him and Zack had to believe he would. He was not sure he could live with himself if he were part of the reason Lyta was handed over to someone like Bester.

'Listen, I need a favour.'

'I'm all ears.'

Zack hesitated.

'I just arrested Lyta. She insists that she's innocent, but there are several witnesses that corroborate the vic's account; that she scanned him illegally, and threatened to do worse. We have her in the brig, and we've tried to keep it on the low, but it's only a matter of time before someone leaks it to the Psicorp, if they haven't already.

'I hope she has a good lawyer.'

'Actually that would be the favour. She is asking for you to represent her.'

Garibaldi frowned. 'Did she do it?'

Zack frowned. 'I can't imagine her attacking anyone, but there are several witnesses to a confrontation, one of whom swears he heard her threaten him. Now I've got my suspicions; there is something awfully convenient about the timing, what with Psicorp breathing down our necks about harbouring a rogue. Sheridan will do what he can, but he doesn't have that much pull back home these days, and Earthgov is getting edgy. I am worried if we can't do something soon it could get real nasty really quick.'

Garibaldi nodded thoughtfully.

'I knew a lawyer once - condescending bastard... I will talk to her, and see what I can search up on the witness. If it's an Earth job there might be someone willing to talk, but if its Psicorp…'

Zack nodded wearily. Something told him that the odds were against them on this one, but he could not think of a better ally.

'I should go – the commander will want an update.'

Garibaldi nodded.

He watched Zack leave with a thoughtful expression. There had been no doubt in his mind that the younger man was the correct choice of successor, and so far he seemed to be handling it well enough. There was already a confidence to him which had been absent before, and his past performance indicated the sort of adaptability that was essential to survive on a place like Babylon 5.

As for the telepath crisis…it was bad luck, but hardly unexpected. That situation had been threatening to erupt since the station had re-joined earthforce. Part of Garibaldi was surprised that it had taken so long to boil over. -Earthgov must have held back in the early weeks so as not to risk losing the station again.

But that sort of fragile truce seldom lasted, particularly when the teep in question was powerful enough to pose a significant threat to earth security. No, he could not imagine the notoriously paranoid president being happy with such an arrangement. And then there was the Psicorp. Too much of their power came from being the only option for telepaths- the existence of a rogue of Lyta's prominence would challenge too much of what they stood for – they could not afford to leave her alone.

And that brought back memories of another commercial telepath; a woman classy enough to win him over despite his prejudices against her kind. She had fallen afoul of the Corp and he had not needed Bester's *accidental* slip to know it had ended badly for her. Now Lyta was no Talia. But she was still alright for a teep, and she had played a bigger part in winning the war against the shadows than most. She didn't deserve to go down for a crime she had not committed, especially when the fate that awaited her was grimmer than any prison sentence. So he would help her if he could, although he was realistic enough to know what a big _if_ that was.

* * *

Zack Allen was no stranger to making difficult choices. He had done things in that time before Babylon 5 had turned his life around, things he wasn't proud of. But none of them had ever felt like this.

The sleepers had been the captain's idea; back when they had re-joined Earthforce and Sheridan needed to convince his critics back home that Lyta Alexander was not a dangerous loose cannon. They had been the work of Doctor Franklin; a modification on the traditional sleepers that enabled them to block even an enhanced telepath.

That had not made it easier.

Sheridan was speaking animatedly to one of the senators when Zack knocked gently on the open door.

'I cannot overstate that. Yes of course. No I understand. Of course; as long as you can buy me. I appreciate it. And to you, Senator.' He terminated the call with a frown, and his face seemed to age ten years in the time it took to turn to Zack.

'Tell me you have good news.'

Zack shrugged. 'We have Lyta in custody, and the sleepers were successful, although the side effects appeared more pronounced than expected.'

Sheridan nodded. His hand was pressed to his temple as if to ward off a headache, and Zack was reminded that he wasn't the only one functioning on little to no sleep.

'I am afraid that's unavoidable. She needs to be blocked, it's the only way we can delay turning her over. I am going to insist that the incident occurred on the station and the investigation should take place here as well.'

'Will that work?'

'In the long term probably not- but it might buy us some time to get to the bottom of this, and my hope is we can get the charges against her lifted before they can make us give her up.'

Zack nodded. That was what he had expected, but somehow he had hoped that the Captain had something more fool proof in mind. The coward in Zack wanted to leave it at that, but he could not get the expression of betrayal out of his head. He owed it to her to face the consequences of his actions, however necessary they had seemed.

'And if we can't?'

The look Sheridan turned on him was bleak.

'I have a responsibility for this station, and all the people on it. The situation is just starting to get back to normal, and people won't want to disrupt that. Telepaths aren't all that popular at the moment, and now that the accusations against her seem serious most people will want to see it handled by the Corps.'

'They will kill her.'

The captain did not bother to deny it. 'And I will do everything in my power to see that it doesn't come to that. In the meantime…'

Whatever the captain had to say was cut out by a beeping from his comm. 'Yes,' he asked with a trace of impatience.

'Sorry to bother you captain, but I thought you needed to know. Bester just arrived on the station and he is asking to speak to you as soon as possible.'


	3. Chapter 3

'Captain?' the voice repeated. Sheridan grimaced;

'Delay him. I will be down there as soon as I can.' Then he turned to Zack;

'I will stall him for as long as I can -but you need to be prepared. If Earth decides in his favour I may have no choice but to hand her over.'

'And let _him_ win?'

'_Only_ if I have no other options… which is why I suggest you get to work finding some evidence to exonerate Miss Alexander. And Zack…' the Captain turned, half way to the door '-find it quickly.'

They found Bester in one of the conference rooms, with no sign of the agent who had alerted them to his presence. He was deep in conversation, but looked up from the comm as they entered. His eyes bored into Zack's and there was a moment when Zack _felt_ the telepath rifling through his thoughts before he was abruptly released. Zack took a furious step forwards, not sure what he planned to do to the man, other than it would _hurt_.

–_but found himself standing in a corridor, half holding a shaking Lyta as he withdrew the syringe from her arm._

'_Well_ done, Mr Allan,' Bester told him quietly. 'For a mundane to trap a telepath of her calibre, well I must say I'm impressed. Of course it helped that she trusted you. _Poor_ Lyta….Perhaps she will be ready to end this foolish rebellion now that she sees how readily you set her aside when the interests of your own kind beckon'

Zack saw red. He was moving forwards, ready to punch the smugness from that face – but was restrained by Sheridan's hand on his shoulder.

'Mr Bester. I assume you have a reason to be on my ship – besides the opportunity to perform illegal scans on my officers.'

'Ah, _Captain_.' Bester offered a smile that was singularly bereft of warmth. 'I was beginning to wonder if you might be avoiding me.'

'God forbid. What do you want?'

'You know that is a very interesting question. What do any of us want? I certainly wouldn't mind a luxury condo on mars, or perhaps a pleasant afternoon on the beach. But I will settle for your assistance in recovering a particularly dangerous rogue telepath.'

'Well you can't have her,' interjected Zack -'She has done nothing wrong.'

'Her, Mr Allan?' enquired Bester gently. 'I am afraid you misunderstand. I am not here for Miss Alexander – although she is by all accounts an extremely dangerous individual. The man I am tracking poses a far more immediate threat.'

Sheridan's expression darkened.

'And this extremely dangerous individual is now at loose on my station? You know for an organization that claims to police its own you _certainly_ seem to have accumulated an impressive list of failures!'

The dark suited woman on the other end of the comm made a choked sound of fury, but Bester seemed unfazed.

'Well rogue telepaths can be troublesome, Captain. Not all of them can be lured in with false promises of protection…But never fear, I am here now, and the situation will shortly be brought under control. You see, whatever you might think of me, _I_ have no interest in seeing the people on this station suffer.'

* * *

Lyta was sure that the brig was shrinking; either that or she was losing her mind. At first she had distracted herself by listing the side effects the sleepers had on her – the nausea had thankfully abated, but it had left in its wake a sense of disconnection which showed no signs of lessening. She was fairly sure she had not hallucinated anything; the last few hours had been so boring that strange visions might have actually been welcome... As for depression – 'I suppose anyone would be depressed in these circumstances' she told herself softly.

It was now just after eight in the morning, and other than the occasional guard she had not seen a single person. She had half thought that Zack might look in on her, which just went to show even telepaths could be blind in certain matters…either that or the sleepers had addled her more than she realised. She had not heard from Sheridan either which was actually something of a relief; she had been half expecting him to burst into the cell with a list of accusations – or perhaps the news that she dreaded above all else, that he had decided to hand her over.

Of course she would have to face him at some point; by now the news of her arrest was bound to have spread. It would not take long for Earth to begin to exert pressure. Not that it was Earth that posed the greatest threat to her now. The nearest Psicorps base was the one on Mars; it would not surprise her if a team had already set out, probably headed by Bester. If he got his hands on her she would disappear before anyone could so much as mention due process.

And there it was – the truth she had been dancing away from since they had first left her to her own devices. After all this situation could only play out in so many ways and very few of those ended well for her. Not that dwelling on it did any good – after all she could do nothing from this cell, and fear was counterproductive – but she could not seem to help it. There were only so many distractions available to her and so far every train of thought had brought her back to this.

_I find fear to be an effective weapon._ That was something Bester had said to her, before she had decided to switch to commercial telepathy. Lyta suppressed a shudder. There were very few memories that competed with what they had done to that man… or rather, what Bester had done, and she had witnessed.

It was not that she had felt any particular sympathy for the mundane – she knew that he would have done far worse to her. But to see telepathy wielded towards such deliberate brutality…it had shaken her to the core, and planted the first seeds of doubt about the validity of the Psicorps. Not that she would have considered going rogue, not back then…in those days the corps _had_ been her family, and she could not have imagined trying to survive without them. Still it had served as both eye opener and reminder – some families could be frightening. Lyta had known then that no matter how scrupulously she followed the rules she would never feel entirely comfortable in the company of a Psicop.

-And something of that fear had lingered, even after the Vorlons had altered her into something barely human. It was not quite the blind horror of the shadow vessels, but rather a human terror; the fear of the hunted. It seemed that in that one respect at least she was no different from any other blip. It did not help that she could not even run…

Then there was the matter of her defence – fragile as it was…She had asked Zack to enlist Garibaldi and it had seemed a shrewd move at the time, except that hours had passed and she had seen no trace of him, not even a polite refusal. It was not necessarily a bad sign; after time was short, and he might be busy elsewhere, searching for evidence to prove her innocence, or perhaps confronting Sheridan, and fighting her corner. Lyta hoped it was something like that; as corners went hers was looking depressingly empty.

* * *

'I am looking for a Mr Everton,' Garibaldi told the patrons of the seventh bar, scrutinising the faces of those around him for the tell-tale twitch of recognition. '-A Mr Clive Everton – around average height, brown hair - sound familiar, anyone?' There were a lot of hostile faces - unsurprising really – he had arrested more than a few of them in his time. But nothing to suggest that he was any closer to his quarry than when he had first set out. So far Clive Everton had proved surprisingly elusive. He was about to move on to the next location when he saw it – a flicker of recognition. Seeing that he was singled out the man tried to retreat, but Garibaldi was expecting it, and moved to intercept him. 'Here my friend,' he announced loudly, catching hold of the other man's arm in a firm grip as he steered him to a less crowded corner. 'Let my buy you a drink.'

'Let go of me!' snapped the man, brushing a strand of greasy black hair out of his eyes. 'You don't work for security anymore – you have no right to ask me anything.'

'You know I've been hoping someone would point that out,' Garibaldi informed him with a toothsome smile. -'You see the head of security is answerable to a lot of people at Earthgov and that means having to work within a lot of tiresome regulations; like not being able to use force to obtain information. Me now – I've gone private. And that means there would be no one to stop me doing something like this…' He grabbed the man's arm and pulled it backwards at a painful angle. 'Now I ask again -what can you tell me about Clive and where I might find him?'

'Alright! Ok! Clive is in here sometimes picking up women – I don't really like the guy but he is good for drinks, especially if you get him started on the subject of those teeps. Feels very strongly about that he does - thinks the government should round them all up and exterminate them – course he might have a point…ouch what was that for? Anyway he was here last night…seemed mightily pleased with himself about something. He left with a girl with brown hair.'

Now he was getting somewhere. Garibaldi loosened his grip but maintained the hold. 'That was good – now let's see if you can follow through. The girl – what was her name. Have you seen her around here before?'

* * *

At some point in the last hour Lyta had taken to pacing the confines of her cell. There wasn't much room to move, but at this point anything was better than staring at the clock as the minutes crawled by. It was now eight hours since her arrest – eight hours of doing absolutely nothing. Even the thought of her probable fate at the hands of the corps seemed distant now, as if it awaited someone else. It was funny - she had always considered herself to be fairly self-sufficient -but perhaps it was simply that as a telepath she had never been truly alone. Even a P5 was surrounded by a background hum of thoughts and emotions – Lyta did not know her current classification but it had not left much space for isolation. Now all that was stripped away and what was left seemed _lacking_ somehow. As if some vital part of her personality was missing and had been for some time – hollowed out by the Vorlons perhaps, to make room for their alterations. _Who was she?_ The old Lyta would have had an answer. She was Lyta Alexander - a commercial telepath – a member of the Psicorps.

As for now… 'I am Lyta Alexander,' she said into the silence, 'and I am a rogue telepath.'

It was frightening really - how much of her identity had been discarded alongside that symbolic pair of gloves.

Now she wasn't even a telepath. Of course mundanes probably had their own strategies for coping with solitude…she would have to ask Zack…assuming she ever forgave him.

Was it really possible that after five years on this station there was not a single person willing to give up a few minutes of time to check up on her – ask how she was doing? She had been there for them – fought alongside them in the war – surely that must count for something? Apparently not.

The thought was so depressing – and probably accurate that she wanted to weep. Just a few years ago her life had seemed so promising – that Lyta had it all a good job, with prospects for advancement – a reputation – not to mention the fact that no one wanted to dissect her.

Now she was reduced to this; stripped of her telepathy and dependant on an ally who might or might not actually be on her side. It was starting to look like the Psicorps were the only people who actually _wanted_ her around. It was a worrying wake up call. _If you get out of this you are changing your life_, she promised herself.

It was at that moment that she felt it – the unmistakable sensation of a scan. She spun around expecting to see the Psicops closing in, but there was no one there. The room was empty but for her – and the pressure in the back of her mind. Her heart was in her throat – boredom banished in an instant and the fear came rushing back.

She reached for her shields – stopping short when there was no internal response…of course, she thought…the sleepers… The training of her youth would prevent her from broadcasting her thoughts; but that was something any mundane could accomplish…not enough to prevent even a determined P8.

And this mind was considerably more than that…to have scanned her from out of sight would require power not to mention training; a P10 at the least, probably higher. As for her…she was on sleepers – with no more in the way of psychic defence than any other mundane.

_I know you're there; _she projected, defiantly. She might be blocked but she was still a telepath, and she would not make the mistake that mundanes invariably seemed to when dealing with her kind. Just because she could not hear the intruder did not mean they could not hear her. _Show yourself_.

Then she waited. For a heartbeat, and then another. Surely this was it; the Psicorps had decided to bypass diplomacy and take her in by force. No doubt they had measures in place for dealing with the aftermath. It was actually a bit surprising that they had not simply done so before now; it was not as though cover ups had ever posed a problem for their ilk. She supposed it must have been her powers that had kept them away. She could think of nothing else.

Still it was strange that it was taking them so long. Could it be that the sleepers were playing tricks with her imagination? She had felt so certain…

Then the room around her flickered – the empty chair taking on the image (it had to be a projection) of a man in his thirties. It was a remarkable feat, one that was beyond most telepaths, even of the highest classification. To have planted the thought from behind steel walls showed a control that was almost frightening.

'Hello Lyta,' the projection greeted. 'I am sorry that our meeting has to be this way. I have been trying to get through to you for some time, but with the Psicops on the station I have had to be careful.'


	4. Chapter 4

_AN - I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you to everyone who is reading this, especially my 2 reviewers, you guys are awesome and you give me the energy to keep this story going! _

* * *

Sheridan watched with narrowed eyes as Bester proceeded to take over his office, layering the desk with an assortment of documents, each bearing the Psicorps logo. It was less than an hour since the Psicop had arrived, and his levels of irritation were already through the roof.

'Alright Bester,' he strode forwards, placing his hands firmly on the desk, pulling the shorter man's attention from the files. 'Tell me about this threat.'

The telepath met his stare evenly. He hesitated, as if considering how much confidential information he could entrust to a mundane.

'It is a rogue telepath' the Psicop told him finally.

Sheridan took a particularly deep breath, reminding himself that this situation was temporary.

'I meant something aside from the obvious. You have asked for my support and I have granted it, now -'

'Debatable.'

Sheridan stood his ground.

'Lyta is off limits, until such a time as the charges against her have been fully investigated.'

Bester's eyes flashed dangerously. 'A foolish move,' the man sneered softly.

'Well I wouldn't want her to disappear before the evidence can be collected. Until then she is neutralised…besides I highly doubt that this rogue is going to seek her out in the brig. Now if this telepath _is_ as dangerous as you imply I have a right to know what I am dealing with.'

Bester shrugged. 'Very well. As I am sure you are aware, telepaths are separated into distinct classifications with P12's such as myself,' he offered an unsettling smile '-at the top of the list.'

'Mr Bester,' Sheridan interrupted. 'Get to the point.'

'Your average rogue will have a P rating from anywhere between 1 and 9, which is problematic to a mundane, but for a Psicop…well you can imagine. Because of the scarcity of telepaths with a high P rating, as well as certain measures taken by the corps it is very rare to encounter a rogue rated higher than 9 or 10.'

Sheridan's heart sank. Give him an old fashioned war over this telepath minefield, any day of the week. In fact it was almost enough to make him nostalgic for the days when he did not answer to Earthgov, and having Bester removed from his ship was as easy as paging Garibaldi.

'So what exactly are we dealing with here?' he found himself asking, hoping the answer wasn't what he feared.

'A P12, Captain. And a particularly powerful one at that.'

Sheridan frowned. He remembered asking Lyta about the higher rated telepaths when they were recruiting for the shadow war; she had told him that it would be difficult. That any telepath with a ranking of P12 would automatically be designated…

Bester's smile was almost gentle.

'And so you see Captain. You really are better off leaving this one to the experts. Whatever you may think of my methods I can promise you I am far kinder than Mr Gordon. After all I am answerable to someone…just like you. Rogue telepaths now, they know that they will face severe correction and so they will do anything at all to avoid capture – regardless of the casualties. You might not like me now, but I think that you will be grateful for my presence before this is done.'

'That seems unlikely, Mr Bester.' The telepath shrugged dramatically before turning back to his documents. Sheridan was about to make a pointed comment about finding the Psicop somewhere else to do his work when Bester addressed him again without looking up.

'Of course if you wanted to assist me I am particularly fond of coffee – preferably black.'

Sheridan left his office with a pounding headache and the telepath's last words ringing annoyingly in his mind;

'An interesting proposition but I just don't think I have the flexibility…'

* * *

Andrew was uneasy. He had drawn the short straw with this assignment; no one wanted to be responsible for guarding the altered telepath. It was bad enough when an ordinary teep decided to mess with you; but the woman who stood with her back to him inside the cell – from what they said about her she was barely even human.

Sure she _looked_ harmless enough. She was actually quite pretty, in a mousey red head way, if you were into that sort of thing. And if you were willing to risk it…Andrew could not imagine letting one of _them_ inside his head regardless of the reason. It was bad enough that he had been assigned to stand between this one and her freedom…after all she had already performed illegal scans on at least one civilian and frankly if she got loose he didn't like his odds.

The overheard conversation between the chief and Dr Franklin hadn't exactly set his mind at ease either… It had been a short exchange, after the doctor had finished his long distance observation.

'You should let me know if the patient shows any sign of her abilities returning.'

'I thought you said the sleepers would be strong enough.'

'Sure they are,' the doctor had agreed cheerfully. 'More than five times the strength of those needed to knock out a P12 for a month – which would be reassuring if that was what we were dealing with…'

Then the two men had passed out of earshot, leaving Andrew alone with the telepathic prisoner whose abilities might or might not remain dampened.

So it went without saying that Andrew paid _very_ close attention to the behaviour of the prisoner. And that behaviour was normal enough, at least for the first few hours. Enough so that by 2PM Earthtime his mind was starting to wonder; just enough to miss the first warning signs.

So that by the time it occurred to him to wonder at the sudden _purpose_ in her stillness it was too late to go for his comm – too late to do anything as the scorpions started to descend on him.

As for the second man – who watched with concentration as he fell to the floor, before turning to depart – of him the unfortunate guard would retain no memory whatsoever.

* * *

'You aren't hallucinating Lyta' the sending assured her 'or if you are then it is a delusion that we share.'

'My name is Byron and like you I am running from the Psicorps. But I didn't come here to run – we have spent too long running, when what we should be doing is making a stand. I had heard stories of your incredible abilities and I knew that you must be the answer to our prayers.'

-'But first I have to get you out…what?' it happened too quickly for her to respond…one minute he was focussed on her, his expression earnest, and the next he was turning around, his eyes narrowed with displeasure. -At what she could not see…

'Byron?' she reached out to him – or at least tried to reach – the power that should have flowed from her remained infuriatingly blocked.

But something _was_ happening in the corridor outside – she could hear the sound of scuffling.

'Byron?' No answer. Then the sending blanked out and she was left alone in the cell.

* * *

Garibaldi frowned at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand…unfortunately the address which had been scribbled there remained the same; Brown 5 – just that. As leads went it wasn't exactly promising…the brown sector was large and full of unsavoury characters who were bound to resent his presence. Searching it would take time – too much time given Zack's most recent update – he had hoped to have a few more hours before the Psicops descended on the station.

He had worked with Bester in the past and recognised in the telepath a determination that mirrored his own. While the man's attitude left much to be desired, his results could not be questioned; and he would keep on coming until he had what he had come for.

That meant that Garibaldi needed to track down Clive Everton and persuade him to withdraw his testimony before the Psicop found a way to make him disappear for good. Because once that happened Lyta was as good as lost… Even if Sheridan was able to keep Bester from taking custody then and there it was just a question of time before Earthgov forced his hand; either way Bester would be smiling. And Garibaldi would have been prepared to search the moon singlehandedly if it had meant pissing the telepath off. Compared to that Brown Five was just a minor irritation.

'I have a possible lead,' he informed the comm screen in the elevator. It was strange to be reduced to civilian communication, after years of military access, and not entirely comfortable. He made a note to see what he could do about getting his hands on a stray communication piece – just for emergencies of course. If five years on this station had taught him anything it was that it was that there was no such thing as being over prepared.

'It seems our Mr Everton has a weakness for brunette hookers, and was seen leaving with a girl last night. Now I couldn't get a name for the girl, but some of her patrons thought she operates out of Brown Sector. It's not much but she is the last person to set eyes on our witness, so if you could do your best to keep Bester away it would be appreciated. I will get back in touch once I find out more.'

He cut the transmission, and smothered a yawn. What was it he had said about independent work again – no more getting caught up in every station emergency?

'Well maybe I can sit the next one out,' he said to himself, as the lift came to a stop.

'Brown Five,' announced the mechanised voice, and the door slid open, to reveal two large men, both of them armed. Thug one (Garibaldi thought he recognised the ghastly taste in tattoos) took the lead, his smile wide and unpleasant, but the second was not far behind. Needless to say there was nobody else in sight.

'Ohh boy,' Garibaldi muttered. Then in a louder voice; 'I don't suppose you just happened to be waiting for the lift?'

Thug one raised his firearm.

'No? -Didn't think so.'

* * *

'Byron?' Lyta knew that it was dangerous to speak out loud, but her silent enquiries had been met with yet more silence – and she had to know what was going on. It was not that she trusted him per se, but if he _was_ telling the truth about his own status as a rogue…Well there was no denying how good it would feel to have an ally – particularly one as powerful as he had seemed.

_Assuming that this isn't one of their games_, she reminded herself grimly. After the incident with the mundane (was it really only last night?) she wasn't taking anything at face value.

Still he had _seemed_ so sincere. Not to mention the fact that the corps were only interested in taking her into custody – and she couldn't imagine Bester risking such a perfect opportunity to get his hands on her, not for the benefit of what little information she had at her disposal.

Lyta approached the door with caution, listening intently with both senses.

_Byron?_ She broadcast softly, trying not to picture Bester standing on the other end of the steel door, listening to her every thought with that familiar brand of dark amusement. It could not have been more than a couple of minutes since the projection had faltered, no matter how long it had felt to her. For all she knew he had sensed a nearby Psicop and decided to lay low until the threat was past.

But what if it was more than that? What if he really was in trouble?

Then Lyta allowed herself a humourless smile. If there was something in that corridor strong enough to threaten a P12 she was in no position to offer assistance, even if she could have left this cell. _Face it Lyta, you are better of worrying about your own situation_….but the last few hours had been spent on just that and to little practical benefit. In fact the only real chance she had seen of getting out of here had been with the assistance of this Byron and it was quite possible that he had just been arrested himself.

If this was some particularly imaginative Psicorps torture she had to admit that it was working – if there was one quality that was shared by all telepaths it was a hatred of being kept in the dark.

Then all of a sudden her mind was no longer alone. _Please don't be concerned_ he told her. _I am going to come to you, and then we will have a few minutes to talk_ and she could hear the sound of footsteps moving rapidly towards her. She had only a second and a half to gather herself before the door was suddenly open, and she found herself face to face with the man from the image.

The projection, she decided, had not done him justice. Oh there were shadows under his eyes and his face was lined with strain, but none of that could detract from the power of his presence. She found to her embarrassment that she was staring – there was a line of belief amongst mundanes that the more powerful a telepath was the greater their natural charisma - it was nonsense of course, but looking at Byron one could almost believe it. The elegance of his features certainly did not hurt.

'Lyta,' he greeted her with a radiant smile, and she was grateful that he did not acknowledge her line of thoughts. 'Your mental image does not do you justice. I can sense your questions and I will answer them all, but time is short. Will you come with me?'

Lyta hesitated. To run now would be to lose the support of the station; that much was clear. If she left with Byron it would not just be the Psicops who hunted her. Besides this was her home, it might not be ideal but it was everything that she had left, not an easy thing to give up. At least it would not have been, if it had not already been gone. Face it Lyta, she told herself grimly; Babylon 5 stopped being your home the moment the mundanes decided to ambush you with sleepers. Whatever happens now, there is no going back.

As for Byron -her gut instinct said that this man was not with the corps – that she could trust him. He must have been aware of her thoughts but he did not interrupt. Strangely this decided her.

'Yes,' she whispered. 'I will come with you,' and she knew that her choice was the right one the moment that she saw his smile.

* * *

'You have got to be kidding me.' Zack had hurried back to Sheridan's office the moment he had received the message, hoping that he had misunderstood. One look at the Captain's face told him he had not. As for Bester – gloating seemed too mild a word for the expression on the Psicop's face. Of course this must be the best possible outcome as far as he was concerned. Now that Lyta was in the wind there was nothing to stop him from taking control of the hunt for her. What could have possessed her to risk it?

'She definitely escaped?' he turned to face the telepath, his eyes narrowed with suspicion, as he voiced his train of thought aloud. 'Because I think we all know how much Mr Bester here would love to get his hands on her.'

Sheridan shook his head. 'The security footage is clear enough, Lyta left of her own free will, although she did not do so alone.'

Zack frowned. 'I don't understand, are you suggesting she has an accomplice?'

'It is starting to look that way. See for yourself.'

The stamp on the recording was recent, he noticed; if she had made her move it was in the last half hour. At first everything seemed fine, Lyta was pacing her cell with a frown on her face, and there was nothing at all to suggest that she might be plotting her escape. Then suddenly she froze, turning as if to face an intruder. Zack suppressed a shiver – there was no one else in the cell. Whatever the red haired telepath saw it seemed to calm her though, he could see the panic in her features smooth into something resembling resolve. Then suddenly she frowned.

'Byron?' she called out softly.

Zack's heart sank. 'The rogue?'

Sheridan nodded grimly. 'This would have been the moment when the guard realised something was wrong. We have him in the medlab now under sedation –but whatever they hit him with it did serious damage. There is a good chance that he won't recover.'

Zack felt cold. 'It wasn't Lyta. This Byron maybe, but not her, she wouldn't hurt someone unnecessarily.'

'That may be so, but it changes nothing. Earth will demand action, and perhaps they are right. We have one injured man and two telepaths on the loose with no reason to hold back…'

'An unfortunate turn of events,' cut in Bester, 'but hardly an unforeseeable one. I have warned you on more than one occasion that your sentiment would lead to something like this – still I will not hold it against you. What matters now is that we are finally on the same page – the rogues must be recaptured. Fortunately I have some expertise on the subject. Now I imagine that you can have no more objections to my taking control of the prisoners once they have been recaptured?'

Zack frowned but Sheridan was already nodding. _Calm down_, he told himself sternly, _you saw this coming_ – you know _the Captain has no choice_. But no amount of objectivity could dull the image that was Lyta being hunted, and possibly even gunned down by some overenthusiastic Psicop. Zack wanted to rage – to smash something, possibly several things. _I was on your side_; he told the woman silently _why couldn't you see that_? _All I needed was a little bit more time_. But that was immaterial now – Lyta had made her choice, and all that was left was the aftermath.

He had never been so tempted to walk away from a post in his life; but he could not – not when it had been Sheridan's sympathy that had allowed Lyta to stay with them this long. Zack owed the man to see this through. It was even possible that he could still do something to help her. And so he stayed; for the same reason that he had gone along with the plan to drug her; because sometimes actions were necessary even if they couldn't be called pleasant. -And because she had left them no choice. _Lyta what have you got yourself into? _

While he had been gathering his thoughts Bester had taken charge 'I have called for reinforcements,' he told them 'but we cannot expect them to arrive for another couple of hours. That is a pity because we have a window of opportunity – the sleepers in Miss Alexander's system will not block her forever and once they wear off capturing either of them will become considerably more difficult.'

'Byron knows this, which is why his next move will be to go to ground for however long that takes. Between his training and Lyta's familiarity with the station finding them will not be easy. We will need to look out for anything unusual not just today but in the last couple of days as well – any anomaly which could point to a P12. -Something to say Mr Allan?'

Zack shot him a glare.

'Just that I don't know – searching for something 'out of the ordinary' on a place like Babylon 5 might not be as simple as you make it out. Now maybe if you could narrow it down a little…'

Bester frowned. 'Quite right Mr Allan – I do seem to be at a disadvantage there, which means that I will need to borrow some of your expertise.' Before he could process this, or make any sort of protest Zack found himself unable to move.

'Get – Away – From - Me' Zack hissed ineffectually, as the telepath approached him, reaching out a black gloved hand as his eyes narrowed in concentration.

_Relax Mr Allan _came the Psicops voice from _inside _his head. _I only need to obtain an overview. Believe me your mind is not a place I have any desire to linger. _Trying not to panic – and probably failing – Zack threw everything he could muster against the invisible force that was even now rifling through his thoughts. _A sense of exasperation_ _– _then Zack found himself imprisoned behind a crude wall. He could see everything that was going on around him, but could not do anything about it – could not reach the muscles needed to speak- or throw a punch - or make any move at all…

_Now then _the telepath instructed, as calmly as if nothing had happened_. Let me see everything to catch your notice since Friday morning. _And Zack felt his thoughts obey even as he tried to stop them.

_I will kill you_ he hissed at the presence. _You hear me you bastard I WILL kill you._

_Unnecessary Mr Allan. I_ - then without warning Zack was suddenly free. Stumbling backwards he reached for his firearm, fully intending to empty it into the Psicops head – only to find the reason for his release – during Bester's mental assault Sheridan had drawn his own weapon and was pointing it directly at the telepath.

'Captain,' Bester interjected. 'This is unnecessary – we are on the same side,'

'I suggest that you step away from my head of security' Sheridan spoke with a dangerous calm. 'I would hate to have to waste my time going over all the details with whoever they send to replace you.'

Bester blinked.

'Very well. I have what I needed. Nothing much out of the ordinary, except that there has been some unusual behaviour in the residents of down below– it isn't much, but it's a start. I will expect your security teams to be ready within the hour.'

Sheridan nodded finally, replacing the weapon.

'I will instruct them – but Bester….I expect you to take every precaution to prevent this turning into a bloodbath. I won't have my men needlessly sacrificed, not for you and your games, am I understood?'

The Psicop fixed him with a poisonous stare 'perhaps you should have thought of that before you made your station home to a rogue telepath. We will be doing this my way now – because my way works. And as for bystanders…_I make no promises_.'

Sheridan was about to answer heatedly when Zack's comm beeped, cutting him off.

'We've got trouble in down below,' one of his men announced. 'I thought you should know as you were asking about brown sector.'

Brown sector? And then he remembered – Mr Garibaldi!

'What sort of trouble?' Zack asked, aware that all the attention in the room was now fixed on him.

'Reports of a shooting, possibly an assassination. We are sending a team down to investigate now.'

-'Don't bother,' cut in Zack. 'I will handle this in person. Thank you for the update.'

Then he turned to face the Psicop. 'Unusual enough for you Mr Bester?'

* * *

Garibaldi was in a foul mood. First he had been drawn into yet another security incident – then he had been sent on a wild goose chase through most of down below. And just when he had himself a solid lead some moron with a grudge had to pull something like this.

'You two sure are lucky I'm in a hurry,' he told the downed thugs, massaging the knuckles of his left hand, and trying to ignore the flashes of pain in his leg and abdomen. It had looked really bad for a while there – it would have been, if his attackers had acted with any sort of unity.

Fortunately for him this brand of thug was more accustomed to attacking alone - allowing him to handle them one at a time. If not for that…but only fools dealt in ifs, and while Garibaldi had earned many unflattering names in his time 'fool' had not been one of them.

'I sure hope Lyta appreciates this,' he muttered grimly as he secured the second man, before laying their illegal weapons prominently beside them. 'Someone will come investigate the gunshots and then you can explain how you got here to security.'

Then – before he could reconsider the wisdom of continuing in this state – he set off into brown sector. He had passed through several deserted corridors before he realised that something was wrong – lurkers had some of the best survival instincts he had ever encountered but even they wouldn't stay away so long after trouble had passed.

Unless there was some whole new trouble brewing that Garibaldi didn't know about.

That was a nasty thought, but it didn't change anything. He still needed to find Clive Everton, and the last person to have set eyes on the man run her business from somewhere down here. Besides there were plenty of unpopular people on this station aside from him – maybe it was someone else's turn to get a nasty surprise for once.

'Yea right,' he muttered. 'Come out Mr Everton – wherever you are.'

But not only was Mr Everton keeping out of sight, but every other inhabitant of brown seemed to have vanished alongside him. Garibaldi made his way through deserted halls and abandoned corridors, alert for the slightest hint of noise that would give away someone watching him.

'Ok this is getting creepy. Hello? Is someone there? -Anyone?'

But there was nothing…it was the quietest he had ever seen a part of down below.

'Apparently not.' Garibaldi told himself. 'That's ok - I will find you the old fashioned way.' He kept walking.

Through another corridor, and then another.

Then just when he had given up on finding anything he saw a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye.

'Hey! You! Just a minute!'

He gave chase, gritting his teeth against the pain that flared through his injured leg. Whoever it was they certainly moved quickly – and his battered condition was not helping matters. But even the best runner in the world had to slow down to take corners, and Garibaldi was able to gain enough ground to make out some details – it was definitely a man, not particularly tall, with unremarkable colouring. Could his luck be turning?

Of course this would count for nothing if he let the man outrun him. Wishing he had thought to carry some pain killers, Garibaldi forced himself to greater speed. He could always take the time to heal properly later – Lyta- not to mention Zack needed him now.

Then just when he was despairing of ever catching up to his quarry – his renewed effort began to pay off. The man, obviously unfamiliar with the maze that was down below, had turned off into a dead end.

'Finally – a bit of luck,' Garibaldi slowed his pace to a lope and set off after him. – Down one corridor which went straight into another, at the end of which he found his quarry – staring at him wildly, his breathing heavy.

'Mr Everton?' Garibaldi asked, taking in the wild eyed man who crouched at the end of the hallway. That it was the illusive Clive there could be no doubt – although he no longer resembled the neatly groomed man in the photograph.

'I am not here to hurt you' Garibaldi tried to reassure him, approaching slowly as one might a spooked animal '–I just need you to answer some questions.'

But Everton did not seem to hear him – his gaze kept slipping off where Garibaldi stood to focus on a point further down the corridor, and his expression… Garibaldi suppressed a shudder.

He had seen some messed up things in his life, and some damaged people, but even in his roughest years he did not think he had seen anyone look at him with such agonizing helplessness.

Clive Everton – the man who had been responsible for his current bad day - was crouched inwards, huddled up as if by the act of making himself small he could escape from some private nightmare.

But his eyes…they were fixed on Garibaldi with an expression that was so bleak – so horribly fearful that his gut clenched in sympathy, even as his mind went into overdrive trying to imagine what might have caused _this_. -And more importantly, whether it might still be around here somewhere.

Suddenly the deserted corridors made a lot more sense; if there was something in brown sector capable of reducing a grown man to _this_ he wouldn't have wanted to stick around either.

Clive – or what was left of Clive – was muttering something under his breathe – some sort of nursery rhyme? The words were too garbled for Garibaldi to make them out. His eyes were feverishly bright, and they alternated swiftly between Garibaldi and the entrance of the corridor.

'Easy,' Garibaldi told him softly, approaching the rocking man with caution. 'Easy. I'm not going to hurt you.' But even as he spoke, he could not help but notice how very wrong this picture was. Garibaldi was a man who paid attention to his instincts and right now they were screaming at him that he was missing something important.

Then Clive froze – tensing like a wild animal who has detected some sort of threat. He had stopped his whispering – fixing Garibaldi with a stare that was one part desperation and two parts madness.

'Help… me...' he whispered laboriously.

'Alright,' Garibaldi tried his best to reassure the man as he crouched down beside him– close enough to make out the unnatural brightness of Clive's eyes, as well as the reek of stale urine which surrounded the man.

'It's going to be alright. Can you tell me what did this to you?'

The man laughed. It was an empty sound, chilling in its bleakness.

'It was _them_,' Clive whispered eventually.

'OK,' Garibaldi told him 'do you think that you could tell me about them?'

Clive nodded.

'They aren't like us,' he confided. 'Oh they look the same, and they pretend…but they aren't they aren't they AREN'T' he got louder and louder until Garibaldi winced.

'Ok. Not like us – Got it. But you need to tell me who.'

Clive stared at him as if he was an idiot.

'Telepaths' he pronounced slowly – and then as an afterthought 'demons.'

And Garibaldi felt his heart sink. Of course it was – he really should have seen this coming. But he hadn't wanted to think that a person could have done this – however unpleasant an individual this Clive might have been – he did not deserve what had been done to him. No one did.

Then there was the matter of the attacker – Garibaldi didn't know much about the telepath mind set but wouldn't down below be the ideal environment for a rogue who wanted to escape notice? Garibaldi hoped that he was wrong – that whichever telepath had reduced Clive Everton to such a pitiful state (it had certainly not been Lyta Alexander) was long gone from here. Because if he wasn't… Don't think about that, Garibaldi told himself, just focus on getting him out.

Of course whatever energy had allowed the man to almost outrun him had vanished now that Garibaldi actually _wanted_ him to move.

He wondered if Franklin would be able to anything for him. Then without warning the man was thrashing about –and Garibaldi staggered backwards, having taken an elbow to the wound that was already throbbing.

'What the hell?' he snapped, only to feel his blood chill at the way Clive was backing away – not from him but from something behind him.

'No please,' the man was whimpering – his eyes fixed on that point just a few paces down the corridor.

Moving with slow deliberateness, Garibaldi turned; and found himself staring into the familiar dark eyes of Mr Bester. His breath caught in his throat and he fought the urge to take several hasty steps backwards – he would probably only trip over Clive if he did so.

'I must congratulate you,' the Psicop told him, taking in the scene dispassionately. 'Your efforts have proved very helpful – but it is time this was handled by the professionals.'

'No' cringed Clive. 'Nonononono…' A quick irritated glance from Bester silenced him.

Garibaldi frowned. 'Leave him alone,' he insisted.

But Bester was shaking his head 'I don't think so,' the shorter man told him lightly. 'This man is a witness. He might know something useful.'

And with that the Psicop advanced, his hand outstretched, as if he intended to lay it on the cowering man. Moving deliberately, Garibaldi put himself between them – trying not to think about how easily the telepath could incapacitate him if he wanted to.

Bester's smile widened.

'You know I was surprised to hear about your retirement,' the Psicop told him, in a tone that was almost friendly. 'You didn't seem like the sort to simply walk away – but that is exactly what you did – without a hint of regret. So here we are, with yet another choice in front of you. Walk away Mr Garibaldi. I promise you won't like the alternatives.'

And Garibaldi found himself seriously considering it. There was something about an enemy who could get inside your head, turning your very thoughts against you – how could one begin to fight that? He had done what he could for Lyta, hell he had almost been shot while trying to prove her innocence. But this had been his only lead, and it didn't take a genius to see that Mr Everton wasn't capable of shedding light on anything.

Meanwhile here he was – down a deserted corridor with a man whose dislike of mundanes was notorious, with no back up on its way, and no weapon that could do a damn thing against a telepath.

He was about to answer – with what he had not quite decided – when Bester's eyes narrowed.

'What are you doing?' the Psicop demanded – not of him Garibaldi realised a moment later – but of Clive.

'Tenser said the tensor,' Clive recited, and Garibaldi thought he recognised the rhyme from before. 'Tenser said the tensor.'

It meant nothing to him but Bester was staring down with undisguised horror – then the Psicop had turned on his heel and started to _run_.

'What the?' Garibaldi stared in disbelief.

Clive looked up at him, and his eyes seemed clearer than they had before. 'Tenser said the tensor,' Clive repeated almost gently, and then he reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked ominously like a detonator.

Garibaldi had time to think that next time a telepath ran away he wouldn't stick around to ask questions – and to take a couple of ineffectual steps back before the last words hit him;

'Tension, apprehension and dissension have begun' – and then Clive must have triggered the device because the whole corridor was engulfed in flame.


End file.
